Home Alone
by starringdakota
Summary: John doesn't like leaving Sherlock home alone, everything is so much better when Sherlock has something to occupy his mind, and there is nothing like an interesting case. Please review, opinions keep me writing
1. Chapter 1

'Oh God, he's bloody done it again.' thought Dr John Watson as he walked into the room. He had been dreading this entry. Ever since he left the flat half an hour ago and left him by himself. Left him alone. In 221B Baker Street. He had again been dreading it when he was at the supermarket with those stupid self-serve check outs. Bloody stupid machines. And again he had dreaded it as he got out of the cab in front of 221 and walked in the front door.

As he ascended the stairs, John listened for signs of life upstairs. He was still asleep when John left at midday. With any luck he was still in bed or perhaps in his room in front of his website. Alas, no. He was well awake. And this time the table had suffered from his boredom. The great yet unoccupied mind of Sherlock Holmes did many things, including torturing the inanimate objects inside the flat.

John walked over to survey the damage. Spread across the table was beakers, cups, containers and more scratches now joined the one that was already there (that one which had mysteriously appeared during another of John's outings). At least, for now, he had stayed away from the new windows.

Sherlock now sat on the couch with his knees close to his chest and his hands occupying themselves by playing with his phone, flipping it over and over in his long, delicate fingers. The one bit of solace John could find in this was that Sherlock was now still. He was still in his dressing gown, the blue one with the hole in it. He remembered how that hole had gotten there. John's eyes wondered to the wall on which was adorned the yellow 'Michigan' and bullet hole face smiling at him and he internally congratulated himself for taking all the bullets out of his Browning after that episode.

He made to move some of the cups off the table. "Don't touch, John", Sherlock warned, still sitting on the couch, "I'm experimenting".

"Couldn't have experimented the effects of using a coaster between the table and the cups, could you?"

"John as always your wit astounds me, but don't touch. They have to stay there for a while yet."

John couldn't be bothered arguing or even asking what the hell the experiment was. He walked away, that was the only answer. "Lestrade hasn't rung yet, has he?" John hoped aloud.

"Yes. He did call once about a possible case. Boring. Wasn't worth going down to the Yard, they could do it themselves. Of course, I would solve it quickly but better leave them something to do." Sherlock replied, plainly and simply. "Can't do all the work for them", he added.

That man, thought John Watson, that bloody arrogant man. One of these days he would have to get a real job. Or start actually accepting jobs whenever they came up but instead, for the time being, he would sit day after day on the couch, on his bed, in front of his computer, on his phone doing nothing and complaining about it.

The only upside of Sherlock not having a case to work on was that he would get out his violin, an old, slightly beaten up one but nonetheless one that made gorgeous, rich sounds, and he would play. Stacked upon one part of the wall, alongside newspapers from nearly six months ago and hundreds of other clippings, printouts and general rubbish, was numerous music books and, when he felt like it, Sherlock Holmes would pick one up or play from memory some of John's favourite pieces. If he wasn't a consulting detective (or whatever else one would like to call his profession) he could be a world class violinist. But then again, he could be many things. He could be an actor or use his skill at martial arts or boxing.

As John was unloading the shopping in the kitchen, into the near empty fringe and pantry, Sherlock finally moved he walked past his violin case much to John's dismay and straight past his computer to join John in the kitchen. He turned on the kettle and went to lean against the wall.

"How was the charming Miss Morstan today, John?"

"Should I even ask how you knew?"

"Either you have changed to a more feminine deodorant or you paid her a visit while you were out" Sherlock explained with an almost bored voice, "I have to admit, I do like her perfume more than Sarah's. Mary's is a little bit different. She was very interesting woman. I do like her."

Watson felt a pang of guilt at the mention of Sarah. That didn't end so well. The relationship had its issues from the first date (with her almost being impaled by possibly the largest arrow John had ever seen) and continued much in the same way. It came down to a choice, she told him. Either he gave up his adventures with Sherlock, which she so often got in the way of annoying Sherlock to no end, or they were done. It wasn't a fair choice.

The thing Sarah always failed to realise was that John needed those adventures. Once a soldier always a soldier and as Mycroft had put it being around Sherlock showed John the battlefield of London, a place that not so long ago had been bleak which now held for him infinite wonder and adventure with the mind of Mr Holmes as his guide. Even after being put at Moriarty's mercy in the pool, an experience which was still very fresh in John's mind, this detective work wasn't something he was willing to give up yet. So, with that, he and Sarah were over and his toothbrush left her bathroom and Sherlock once again had his partner's full and complete attention.

When Mary had walked into the rooms at 221B around a month ago now, Watson was immediately intrigued by her. She held herself with a dignity and a poise that completely hid the fear that she held inside. She came to Sherlock with a case and the thing that John found most remarkable was that Sherlock was interested in her too. He noted everything about her and came to the conclusion that her case was worth his attention. John remembered the relief that he had felt when Sherlock took on the case without saying anything too personal to Mary. Nothing that would offend her (although John was sure that Mary Morstan wouldn't have taken much offence to anything Sherlock said to her, he was grateful nonetheless).

When she walked in at four in the afternoon a few Wednesdays ago, declared herself as Mary Morstan and sat herself down on the couch with Sherlock opposite, sitting on the coffee table, and John against the wall where Sherlock was now, John instantly wondered and then worried what the detective would deduce about her. He had the habit of being very blunt.

"Ah, Miss Morstan, welcome. I was hoping it was you in the cab but I couldn't be sure. About our chat the other night on the website, your case does sound interesting."

"Well, Mr Holmes…"

"Sherlock, please"

"Okay, Sherlock, as I told you the other night my father has disappeared and I couldn't come any earlier than this. I hope that isn't a problem."

"Not a problem at all. I suppose school has finished?" He checked his watch. "Yes, it has. You're a teacher. You have walked from the school part of the way, definitely past Queensway Market at least. Let me see, there are three schools near there. All three are primary schools." He noted, "You're a primary school teacher then."

"I could have told you that, Sherlock" Mary replied, although she was a little impressed. Mary went on to describe her case. Apparently the Police weren't interested and thought it a waste of time. John knew that even if the case was a little dull Sherlock would take the case anyway. He could be petty sometimes as well as blunt. She smiled politely at John as she left the flat, leaving Sherlock thoroughly interested.

"So Sherlock, how did you know about her being a teacher? What set off that mind of yours this time?"

"Chalk on her skirt." He said, matter-of-factly. "Some also on the cuffs of her jacket too from where she has been rubbing off work on the board all day. She is a left-hander. There is red ink on the side of her hand, probably from correcting the mediocre work of the minds of tomorrow. There are two reasons off a long list"

"But that could mean anything, Sherlock." John teased. "She could have been a secretary?"

"No, John, she couldn't have." And he left it at that.

"Okay, what about narrowing down the schools?"

"You didn't smell her as she walked in?"

John had. She smelled of musk and something else John couldn't put his finger on. But he did know that she smelled wonderful. He didn't say this.

Sherlock continued without an answer, "She had been past the Queensway Market. A Chinese restaurant is the smell you can't figure out." John just looked at him, unimpressed. "Before Queensway there are three primary schools from which it would take around an hour to get here." He left John against the wall and walked to make himself a cup of tea.

John was brought back to the present. Sherlock was looking at him with an almost pitying look. "John, if I zoned out like you do sometimes, the cases of London would never be solved" And with his cup of tea, he gracefully walked across the room, up and over the coffee table and back to the couch. When he sat down his mobile rang. "It's Lestrade".

Thank God.


	2. Chapter 2

The two men joined Lestrade at a simple flat in Bromley. The Detective Inspector was waiting outside the front for the black taxi to pull up and was ready to give Sherlock Holmes a summary of the case. After getting out of the cab, the slender man walked straight up to Lestrade, leaving his companion to pay the fare. Nothing changes.

'What have we got?'

'Missing persons – woman by the name of Elle Fairing, flat number twelve. She's been missing three weeks. Nothing is missing from the house, everything is there; her family came to see if she was here and said that only she was gone. Keys to the flat, car keys, jewellery so not a robbery or anything. No signs of forced entry or signs to suggest a struggle. She's just gone.'

Sherlock entered the building and made his way up the stairs; two at a time and in large bounds. In one quick motion he opened the door and swept into flat twelve. He went silently around the room, like a cat; he was quick and agile, yet careful not to disturb anything around him. He inspected the carpeted floor and the shelfs and the pictures in frames.

'You're wrong about nothing being missing, there was a box or a crate that sat here' Sherlock said, motioning to a spot on the floor, 'But obviously it was new, the family didn't notice it gone. Strange, it was relatively large, something that would leave a noticeable space…'

He flattened himself on the carpet to get a closer look at the area in question. 'It was heavy, even after three weeks the carpet is flatter here than the rest of the room… so heavy, and it sat here for a while, a couple of hours at the very least…

'A man was here. Quite tall – I'd say six feet. He has a light step for his size and thin feet. He was here the same time as the box'

'How would you know that?' Lestrade asked, unable to resist

'Really? It is quite obvious when you actually look, but there are footsteps leading away from whatever was here. But I won't trouble your minds with how I know, if you want you can read my articles on the art of reading tracks' Sherlock replied dismissively

John stood in the corner of the room with the same look of awe that he usually had when Sherlock showed off his skills of deduction, a look of respect and admiration, and rolled his eyes. Incredible man. Problem was Sherlock knew it.

This was a different case for these two. There was no body or medical evidence here so John was just here to provide company for Sherlock and something to bounce theories and ideas off. He wandered over to one of the shelves and picked up a photo. A young girl, attractive girl, brown hair, green eyes. Tall and slender, standing proud next to a man, John assumed it was her father. Her poor family, not knowing where she was or where to look. Times like this he loved being with Sherlock, it gave him a chance to help again and to play a role. He got to have influence on people lives again and people would remember him for playing an important part in their lives. After the war and being invalided home, it was nice to feel useful.

He walked over to the answering machine and played the messages – 'Elle, it's your sister, where the hell are you? Call me'; 'Sweet heart, pick up the phone, please let us know you are alright'; 'I can't get you on your mobile, Jesus, is it so hard to just call us?'

Elsewhere, Lestrade had his arms crossed in front of his chest. 'I'd appreciate if you would help me on this case Sherlock, bit of a weird one with the lack of my kind of evidence and the boss wants my best men on the job... considering that you constantly remind me that you _are_ the best; decided I would call you in'

'You're lucky that I don't have anything better to do, Lestrade. I'll assist where I can'

And with that he left the room and started down the stairs, John in tail.


End file.
